


Jamais Vu, Déjà Fait

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal, Bed Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Alteration, Object Insertion, Post-Serial: s116 Castrovalva, Sexual Fantasy, Size Kink, Somnophilia, poor Adric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22376092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: The Doctor is staring, again. The bedpost. There is a memory he can't quite put a finger on, something that smells oaken and dusty and tastes like rosemary on his tongue.
Relationships: Fifth Doctor/The Master (Ainley)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Jamais Vu, Déjà Fait

**Author's Note:**

> I owe it to you to be honest at the outright: this is a fanfiction where the Doctor fucks himself on a bedpost. While fantasising about the Master. Yep. Why? I'm not entirely sure, myself. But it got written, and Five is too pretty not to get my signature treatment. Incidentally, it is canon that Ainley!Master's dick is utterly enormous, and you'll never take that away from me.
> 
> Your warnings of the day: the Doctor's companions are mentioned too many times for his comfort, or yours. Adric is usually headcanon'd as underage, so, if you're squicked by the idea of him being indirectly involved, please use the back button at your leisure. Everything else is exactly as it says on the tin.

The shape calls out to the Doctor as he crosses through Adric's room. A broad, blunt wooden finial, much like an acorn, narrowing to a brief recess where it sits atop the heft of the bedpost. It pulls at something within him, half-sensation and half-memory, a heavy coil at the base of his spine.

He finds himself a little uncomfortably tight in the trousers, thinks nothing of it, and quickly retrieves what he has come for.

.

It’s one of those days. He lands somewhere benign, scenic, and secrets himself away in the depths of the TARDIS for some time while his companions amuse themselves. He lingers a little too long outside Adric's room, who (typical boy, even mature as he is), has left his door wide-open.

The Doctor is staring, again. The bedpost. There is a memory he can't quite put a finger on, something that smells oaken and dusty and tastes like rosemary on his tongue.

It reminds him of—well. Ridiculous. Obscene, vulgar, deplorable. It reminds him of the Master's cock. This, he knows, can be nothing but a fantasy, given he's never seen, has never so much as _thought_ about—

He's quite aware that Trakenites are proportioned like satyrs, but this is not an academic awareness that throbs inside of him. The very notion that these things have arrived in his mind, fully-formed, is mortifying.

The Doctor grips a hand over the bedpost, smothering it, and tries not to think about his erection. Nor the two ghosts inhabiting the body he cannot help but imagine.

He feels unbearably empty and full all at once, and the sensation demands to be examined, probed, if not by the sensualist in his mind, then by the scientist. He feels out the edges of it, somatic and neural, the way the connections dissolve into the ether as if a dream slipping from the mind as it awakes.

And yet, clearly, he can see it. Taste it. The outline of firm, sun-bronzed muscles, the sparse, dark hair carrying pheromone and scent, leading him like a blind whelp to suckle at the length of hard, hot flesh beneath. He can feel the way it might pop inside him, unforgiving as rock. He can hear his own scream, the Master's soft chuckle, the seize of breath.

The Doctor leaves, immediately. Sits, erection throbbing, the transmitted echo of some epicentre within, runs his hands over his face. Feels the phantom of rough palms taking hold of his mouth in order to thrust inside it.

. 

The idea, the Doctor finds, has taken on a life of its own. It is an obsession, always lurking beneath his conscious thoughts, always waiting to be revisited. It bursts across his mind with regularity, catching him like a loose tooth, and is equally difficult to avoid probing. Every time it occurs to him, the desire within him surges. He's touched himself, and finds it irritating at best and painful at worst, so distant is the sensation from the arousal sitting heavily inside him.

He's been rifling through one of the many rooms in the TARDIS which approximate storage. There are, of course, many things which are suitable for sexual pleasure, and he's certain of having collected some in his travels. He has collected nearly everything, after all, and many more things still. That is, assuming the need he feels is sexual. The void is not only sitting low in his pelvis, but in his mind, too. And yet he cannot focus on it, what might be missing, not with the image of the Master and the need to be penetrated consuming every stray thought, every quiet moment.

So far, the Doctor has found rather a few things. Various phalluses, rubber and silicone, an internal massage device, at least three _external_ massage devices. He ought to be ashamed by the small hoard, given he can't remember picking up any of it, and instead he can think of nothing but the way each of them might serve to fill him.

Inadequately. There is nothing here that could pass for—for Trakenite. Not Time Lord, the Doctor realises. Those memories (and imaginings) feel as cold and repellant to him as yesterday's dishwater. He considers taking two, three at a time, if that would compare—

Compare.

He thinks, despondently, that this body is his first in a while with highly specific sexual tastes. His third was particularly fond of lingerie, the delicacy and demureness of it, the secrecy. And, supposedly, this new body is making its own desires known; a fetish, a fetish for Traken bodies. It only makes sense that the Master, a Time Lord by nature, is the face of these.

It jolts through him, again. The image of that bedpost. Thick as his arm, equally as long, rounded and hard and painful. Surely painful. Surely not possible. But he knows it is. He _knows_ this on an instinctive level, the way hunger knows it needs food.

His erection is painful, unfulfilled. It won't do. It will not do to have Tegan, Nyssa see him wanton, bothered; to have Adric worrying about his laboured breathing and waddled steps.

He pulls his coat about himself, and walks with deliberate carefulness towards Adric's room.

The Doctor knocks, and prays there is no response. There is not.

 _Good_ , he thinks, pushing open the door. He will be quick. He’ll be quick, get this out of his system, his _malfunctioning_ barely-stabilised system, and be on his way. He clicks the door shut behind him.

The post seems to have become its own animate being, grown and changed size, shape in his recollections. It strikes him as suddenly odd that it might be only wood, an unassuming thing, attached to the bed where his companion sleeps. Approximating the shape of his other companion's late father. 

Gingerly, the Doctor pulls off his trousers.

He runs a hand down, skittering over his erection, moving beneath to massage his perineum, and immediately sags with relief. He sinks to the floor, soft carpet and hard stone beneath, and digs his fingertips into the hard muscle above his entrance, barely nudging the empty ache inside him. Urgent, now, he pushes harder, rubs circles up inside him.

Hesitant, embarrassed, he reaches lower, and the pad of his finger finds the divot of his arsehole. He feels it flinch under his touch involuntarily. The skin is thin, fragile. The sensation of it beneath the pad of his finger is alien and unnatural, but the sensation of being _touched_ makes him gasp.

He looks up, at the conquest he has set for himself, far bigger than his finger, easily as large as his hand. He thinks of the way the Master tastes—would taste—the feeling of hands prising both rows of teeth open to fit as much of his cock in as possible, protected by his fingers. The sensation of being smothered, of trying to touch what length he cannot suck, lick, swallow, having to use two hands to get around it.

The Doctor whines around the fingers he's slipped into his mouth, wetting them with his tongue, pressing them deep until thick, slippery saliva works its way out of his throat. He takes them, glistening, and rests the cold stickiness against his entrance. Then, he's pushing them in, stinging, deeper, deeper—ah, yes. There.

The sting fades in moments. He works another in, dry, aching for the pain of it, the stony feeling of uncompromising, hard cock pushing too deep, too fast, breaking in his body and feeding him too much pleasure to notice the damage. He wants more, he wants the weight of a body asphyxiating him, the sounds of his own sobs muffled by bedding. A fourth, and if he could only get deep enough, far enough, he would come - properly, this time - and this nightmare would be over, and he could _think_.

He stops, breath coming too fast, flustered. His legs tremble as he climbs to his feet.

In his pocket, the Doctor has some lubricant, and the renewed sting beneath him encourages him to use it. He wants not to touch it, to avoid that awful, cold slick gel, unfamiliar on his skin, and so he squeezes a generous amount over—over the wooden post of Adric’s bed. His hearts are pounding. He is afraid, and yes, this is fitting. Begging fits, a barely-audible whisper, a litany of his thoughts - _no no please no stop please yes don't_ \- slotting into his mind the way his fingers had slotted into his body.

He positions himself over it, hands braced on the corner of the bed frame. Feels the broad circle of wood press against him, as solid and large as a seat, the lube making a mess of his buttocks and the tail of his shirt. He grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and imagines. The Master, the Master's body beneath him, hands crushing his hips, demanding he penetrate himself, fuck himself, move, harder, _I've wanted this since you were born_ , the smell of alien sex, of Nyssa's _father_ and the way it had made him helpless with shame and revealed the mindless urgency behind his need.

The Doctor lowers himself down, and feels nothing but hard pressure, blunt and impossible. But he needs it too badly, needs the Master's cock inside him, splitting him, and so he adds more weight, and more. He's almost taken both feet off the ground before he feels himself give way.

For a brief, terrifying moment, the pain is so loud and so incomprehensible he has to come back up, breathe, sweat springing up over the back of his neck, his arms and legs shaking. The second time, he tolerates it longer, grits his teeth and screams through them as, fitfully, the muscle stretches, slips down a centimetre, catches, sticks, another inch further. Tears have welled up in his eyes, his stomach clenching in protest — until there is finally, _finally_ relief, as the indent beneath the knob locks it inside of him.

He gasps for air, filled so far he can hardly take a breath. Oh, the pressure. The pressure is impossible. The wood is too tight against his stretched skin, crushing the fragile tissue, bruising deep muscle. It feels _exactly_ the way he imagined, a missed-stair lurch of _déjà vu_.

His legs, unable to hold him, make him fall another inch or so, taking him down around the width of the post in one brutal second, and he howls through each exhale, the begging indistinguishable from his pain, the way he'd been too weak to fight it, limbs drowsy, mind confused, _just_ like he is now, with nothing left but how much it hurt and how the intensity of sensation alone was going to make him come, his new body, his new orgasm.

He garbles out nonsense, fighting with himself, clenching and seeing stars and relaxing and sliding deeper, so full he can no longer think. He takes himself in hand, a rough, careless fumble in something like a rhythm, hard squeezes and feeble tugs, and in the edges of his hearing—

‘Doctor! Are you alright? Please, answer. _Doctor!_ ’ in Adric's voice, almost real, then the Master's threats to kill the boy if the Doctor won't cooperate, as if he can hardly even think of anything but surviving this, _so pretty, my dear Doctor_ , the way the moonlight had filtered softly through the drapes, the beauty of that place built upon Adric's mind and nourished by the Master's cruelty.

Two things happen at once:

The Doctor comes, and realises, with a spasm of horror, that he has done this before. This pain. This body. This Master. This familiar bed, where he'd convalesced, the place Adric had created for him to heal, the safest place he knew.

The door flies open, and the Doctor's hearts freeze inside him. He stutters. 'I assure you, I can—er, explain.'

Scoured of his thoughtless, reckless need, panicked guilt rushes in to fill the void. His mind is now swallowed instead by the look on the boy’s face: the time-dilation of his expression, crumpling from fright to shock to disgusted grief. His satiation contorts into a sick, revolted hyperawareness of his trousers on the floor, his come as it dries tacky on his thigh. The aftershocks of orgasm seize his body, an unwanted pleasure that shrieks a second violation at him, calling back across his memory.

‘Quick,’ the Doctor mutters, ‘Help me.’ The boy rushes to grab him, and he raises a sticky hand to Adric’s mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: _Put that thing back where it came from or SO HELP ME._


End file.
